Baker's Blues Read online

  He’s working every morning when I leave…or at least he’s in his office with the laptop open on his desk. He swims before lunch, takes a shower. He wants to know what’s going on at the bakery. We talk about our investments, about his book tour next week to San Francisco, Portland and Seattle. We talk about going to Orcas in June. We do not talk about his daughter.

  He’s suddenly affectionate, always holding my hand, lifting my hair to kiss my neck. Still no sex. He reads me passages from his work on the screenplay and tries to look enthralled by my insightful comments, but I’m certain that if I forced the issue, he wouldn’t recall a single one. Behind the phony smile, he’s totally absent.

  On the first Saturday of May, the normal Southern California weather forecast would call for a dense marine layer along the coast, burning off by midday. But today when I roll over at 7 am, the sun is already beating on the east window of our bedroom. Ugh. It’s going to be one of those nasty, breath-sucking days.

  Mac’s not in bed. In fact, from the looks of the neatly turned back sheet, he never was. I walk across the hall to his office and he’s not there either. I look out the office window, down into the back yard. Not in the pool.

  I pull on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, step into my flip-flops and go downstairs. His car is gone and the paper is still on the front walk. What time did he go out this morning? Slowly it comes to me as I’m standing there reading the comics, waiting for the Jura to heat up. He didn’t go out this morning.

  He went out last night.

  I hit the brew button and wait impatiently while dark liquid fills the tiny cup and overflows into the drip tray. I turn off the machine and take my too full cup out on the patio. Brownie follows me out and settles herself on a shady patch of grass.

  The morning air is balmy, no breeze at all, a preview of the deadening heat to come. In our entire neighborhood of older homes probably only two or three have A.C. We don’t get enough really bad heat to justify the expense, but because the upstairs sometimes gets unbearable, Mac has a window unit in his office.

  That’s where we hole up during the bad spells, like last fall when the Santa Anas whipped up the temperatures to record highs. The memory of pasta salads and Popsicles, drinking gin & tonics, sleeping in sleeping bags on the floor makes me smile. Then I remember why I’m sitting here having coffee by myself on Saturday morning.

  I review the possibilities. He could be at Alan’s, I guess. But if he was at Alan’s surely he’d have called by now. Sylvia would have insisted. I suppose he could be at some other friend’s house, but who? Mac doesn’t have a lot of friends. He could be sitting on a rock staring at the ocean. He could be in jail on a DUI. He could be in the hospital.

  Should I call the police? I’d feel stupid. Besides, if there’d been an accident or something, wouldn’t they call me? I stand up abruptly, slopping cold espresso on the flagstone patio. In the kitchen, I dial Alan’s home number. No answer. Then I try Mac’s cell phone.

  Thank you for using Verizon. The party you are calling is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the—

  I hang up, grab my purse and keys and head for the garage.

  Two hot, frustrating hours later, I sit at a stoplight on Sunset Boulevard, resting my head on the steering wheel of my old Volvo. I’ve driven by Alan and Sylvia’s. No signs of life. I cruised the Palisades where he goes to run. I went to Sunny Side Up, the little breakfast place he likes. I even tried the Beverly Hills Library, where he sometimes goes to do research. Nothing left to do but head home. If he’s not there, I’ll think about calling the police.

  His car is in the driveway.

  I let myself in, breathless with a combination of relief and anger. Brownie’s whining in the laundry room, her water dish dry as a stone. I fill the bowl and she slurps happily while I stroke the tufts of fur along her spine.

  “Where’s Daddy?” I ask, but she just keeps drinking.

  I start up the stairs, about to call out his name, when a woman’s sudden laughter rings in the stairwell.

  Through the open bedroom door I see Liv Keppler, the publicist who works with Alan, sitting cross-legged on the corner of our unmade bed. Smiling, nodding, combing her fingers through her blonde hair, tilting her face appraisingly. Mac stands in front of the dresser holding up three different shirts for her approval.

  “Hi, Wynter,” Liv chirps when she sees me.

  I barely look at her. “If I’d known we were going to play dress the author I’d have come home sooner.”

  Her smile wavers. “I was just helping Mac pick out some clothes for the—”

  “He’s been dressing himself for almost forty years now. Why does he suddenly need help?”

  “It’s for television,” Mac says. The edge in his voice tells me he’s pissed off, but I figure that’s his bad luck. So am I.

  Liv looks at her watch. “Oh my God, look at the time. I’ve got to dash. That’s okay, I can let myself out.”

  She disappears down the stairs and we both listen till the door shuts.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “For barging in here, being rude to someone I have to work with.”

  “Since when does working involve her picking out your clothes? In our bedroom?”

  “Wyn, it’s for some TV thing she booked for me. In Seattle.” Every word is measured for emphasis. “And the bedroom is where my clothes happen to be.”

  “It’s not’s the kind of problem that requires a house call. No plaids, no Tommy Bahamas, don’t wear white.” The heat in this room is suddenly overwhelming. My hair clings wetly to my face. “I don’t like coming home to find other women in my bedroom. Just a quirk of mine. And by the way, where were you last night?”

  He sighs. “Could we discuss one thing at a time?”

  “Fine. Let’s discuss where you were last night.”

  “I went over to Alan’s.”

  “Judging from what time I went to bed, it must have been after one o’clock.”

  “That’s right. We had a drink, talked about some things—”

  “Things…?”

  “Like the screenplay and publicity for the book—”

  “And I suppose since you were discussing publicity, the publicist had to be present.”

  “Liv was there, yes.”

  “I drove by Alan’s house an hour and a half ago. You’re car wasn’t there.”

  “We went out to breakfast—”

  “And then you suddenly remembered, hey, I have a wife! And she’s probably wondering where I am—”

  He walks over to stand in front of me. “I think you’re confusing me with Husband Number One. Should I start wearing a name tag? Not David Franklin…?”

  Just the sound of my ex-husband’s name summons way too many memories that I always think I’ve relegated to landfill. Until they reappear without warning.

  “Well, you’re doing a great imitation.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What it means is this.” I let my purse slip off my shoulder and onto the floor. “You used to be someone I not only loved, but liked and respected. You were independent. You were smart. Now all of a sudden, you’re driving around in your Beemer talking on the cell phone. Having all night publicity meetings, which must feature martinis, by the way, because you smell like a distillery—acting like a typical L.A.—” I stop, suddenly hearing myself. I push my hair back and sink down on the bed, out of breath.

  When I raise my eyes, my vision swims. “Couldn’t you have at least called me?”

  “I didn’t want to call too early, and then we were at the Morningside and it was noisy. I didn’t think it was going to be a major—”

  “Mac, please. Talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  I stare at his sweet, blank face. “About why you’re suddenly out drinking all night with the Insomniac Social Club. Why you won’t talk about Skye. Why Liv Keppler is parked on the corner of my bed—and maybe
we should talk about why you don’t want to make love anymore. What’s that about?”

  It’s one of those silences that’s more than the absence of sound. It’s a huge physical presence, sucking the oxygen out of the room.

  He reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I haven’t been sleeping and I’m just really tired.”

  I let out some of the tension in a long breath. He hasn’t answered a single question, but I’m afraid to push. Instead I look for it in his eyes—some kind of answer, something…but he pulls me to my feet and puts his arms around me. In that moment I know he’s doing it to avoid looking at me.

  The bedroom is warm and dark except for the faint green glow of numerals on the clock. All the windows are open, but there’s not much air moving.

  He doesn’t turn on any lights as he comes up the stairs, stands in the doorway, listening…trying to decide if I’m asleep, if it’s safe to come in. I don’t move while he undresses stealthily, eases into bed, carefully turning the sheet back, adjusting his pillow.

  Then I say, “Mac…”

  His exhalation sounds like disappointment. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  I turn on my side to face him. In the dark I can see his profile, looking straight up at the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry for what I said this morning.”

  He turns slightly. This is clearly not what he was expecting.

  “It’s just…I’m worried about you. About us. I don’t want to lose this…” My throat tightens around the words.

  He reaches for me in the dark, tucking me against his body, and I can smell him, the clean smell of soap, the soft dampness of his undershirt.

  “Where were you?”

  “Driving,” he says.

  He could’ve driven to Monterey and back by this time. But at least he hasn’t been drinking. I slip my hand under his.

  “Remember when we drove the Elky down from Seattle? How beautiful it was, driving at night…all the stars…”

  He relaxes slightly against me. “Remember sleeping on the beach that night in Oregon?”

  The feel of him next to me, the sound of our voices in the dark, the almost imperceptible breeze that’s starting to lift the curtains…this is how it’s supposed to be. This is how it was.

  “I can’t wait to get up to the island. Did you book a rental car?”

  “No,” he says.

  “We should do that now if we want to get any kind of decent rate.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  I say, “That’s okay. I know you’ve got a lot going on. I’ll take care of it this week.”

  “Wyn…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know about this trip.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go up there right now.”

  I sit bolt upright. “We’ve been planning it for months—”

  “I know that, but when we planned it I thought I’d be through with this goddamned screenplay in April. I’m not even close.”

  “We haven’t been up there in two years. Why do we even have the place if we’re not going to use it?”

  “Just because we haven’t been up there in a while doesn’t mean we’re never going to use it again.” It’s the exaggerated patience tone of voice.

  “You can write up there, you know. In fact, I think Orcas would be the perfect place to work.”

  “That’s great, except you’re not writing. For me it’s easier to work here.”

  “I guess that’s why you’ve written so much lately.”

  “Wyn—”

  “No, Mac, listen to me. We both need a break—”

  “I can’t leave till this project is finished.”

  I throw off the sheet and get out of bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Resisting the temptation to put a pillow over your face.”

  He sighs. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep. We don’t have to decide tonight.”

  “You expect me to sleep now?”

  “Well, I’m going to.”

  He rolls onto his back, flings his arm above his head. I don’t know if he’s really falling asleep, and part of me doesn’t want to know.

  I slam the bedroom door on my way downstairs.

  “Should I drive you to the airport?”

  Sunday morning. I’m sitting on the edge of the pool. I know it’s because of all the chemicals I detest, but the water feels so silky, draping like a scarf across my legs.

  Mac is reading the paper and drinking coffee and polishing off his third scone in the shade of the market umbrella. He considers my offer for about five seconds. “That’s okay, I’d rather have the car there when I get back.”

  “I could come pick you up and we could—”

  “Traffic’s always a bitch on Fridays. It’s easier if I just have the car there.”

  I squint at the sunlight flashing off the water. “Is…um…Liv going?”

  He doesn’t say anything, so I turn, pulling my legs up out of the pool.

  He says, “You never used to be insecure.”

  My face flushes hotly. “You never used to stay out all night, either.”

  “Of course she’s not going.” He tugs at the bill of his baseball cap. “Why would she?”

  Because she’s a hyena. One of those predatory women who lurks on the outskirts of wounded marriages, waiting for a shot at the carrion. That’s why.

  I don’t say it out loud.

  five

  When I was a little girl, my oma told me that three A.M. is the magic hour. When witches ride across the moon and animals converse. Years later I learned that it’s also the time when most first shift bakers are dragging themselves out of bed. This is no coincidence. It has to do with the alchemy that happens in a bakery. These days the magic is assisted by the thermostat on our proofing cabinet which has (hopefully) kicked on two hours earlier, raising the temperature, bringing the dough to life.

  Monday morning the bakery is dark and warm and the air is thick with yeast from the thousands of loaves of bread baked here over the past seven years. Brownie watches me punch in the code that turns off the security system, and walk around turning on the lights. Technically she’s not supposed to be here, but I hate leaving her alone all day. So far I’ve been lucky; the health department has never showed up on the rare occasions when I’ve brought her in with me. Most people don’t even know she’s here. She dozes on a cushion in my office, rousing herself once in a while to accept an offering of crust or a bite of scone from one of her admirers.

  The bakery was built mainly for bread making, and it began as a no-frills operation, a storeroom in back, a kitchen, a fournil or baking room with a Bongard four-deck oven for bread and a stack of convection ovens for most everything else. A few tables and mismatched chairs for customers, a staff room for breaks and meetings. And my little office that’s just big enough for a computer desk, a book shelf, one file cabinet, and Brownie’s bed.

  The embellishments came later, starting with the antique display case I found at auction and had refitted with a marble counter, some art on the walls, a few plants, with a plant service to take care of them. I always hate walking into a shop or café where the plants are all brown and droopy.

  Two years ago we took over the defunct card shop next door and turned it into a small café area to take advantage of our location in the middle of the village of Luna Blanca, and now it seems that the place is always busy, always noisy. Except for this magic time early in the morning, which is when I like it best.

  I check the temperature of the proofing cabinets, turn on the espresso machine, run the grinder for the first pot of drip coffee, pop a Vivaldi violin concerto into the CD player. I’ve just started pulling trays of dough out of the retarder when Tyler shows up.

  “Brownie! Hi, sweet girl. How are you?” She bends down for a big wet one.

  “She’s fine. And I
am too, thanks for asking.”

  “I see somebody hasn’t had their coffee yet. Leave that alone; you’re going to hurt your shoulder.” She unzips her windbreaker and hangs it on a hook.

  “I’m not a cripple.” I pull out another tray, ignoring the pinch in my left shoulder.

  She grabs the brew basket and blasts it with steam from the frother. “Leave that alone, Wyn. I mean it.” She fills the basket with ground coffee, tamps it expertly, inserts it in the brewing head and pushes the button. “You totally need to see somebody about that shoulder.” She overrides the auto shot, making a longer pull for me.

  “When it becomes more than an annoyance, I will.”

  She hands me the cup, bangs out the used grounds, rinses the basket and repeats the process. Tyler was the barista at the Queen Street Bakery in Seattle, and even after moving on to become cashier, cake decorator, bread baker and now manager, she’s never lost her touch. When I was putting this place together I took her with me to buy our espresso machine. She still trains everyone who touches it. And I love having her make my first cup of the workday.

  “You should get an MRI,” she says. “So you know what it is.”

  “I don’t need an MRI to know what it is. It’s tendonitis.”

  Her first sip of espresso produces a beatific smile. “It’s really great that you’ve got that X-ray vision. Maybe you should set up a little table over by the coffee station and, you know, diagnose everybody’s hurties. We could re-do the sign. The Bread Maven Bakery, Café and Orthopedic Center.”

  “And comedy workshop,” I say.

  Mike and Danni will be in next, shaping baguettes and boules. Not much talking between those two. They know each other’s rhythms and move by instinct. By 5 AM breads will be on the deck, and by 6 the first loaves will be coming out. I love the sweet toasty smell, the blasting heat of the oven room, the popping and crackling of hot crust cooling in the morning air.

  Pretty soon someone will mutter “Can’t take this anymore…” and replace the Vivaldi with Etta James.

  In the kitchen, Raphael will be in high gear. I love to watch him work. Strong, but oddly delicate brown hands lifting the croissant dough out of the cooler, giving it a final turn, feeding it through the sheeter, cutting and rolling the layers of pastry, arranging them on sheet pans for their final rise. He calls them the plain croissants, but to me, there’s nothing plain about those multi-layered, butter laminated, chewy, crisp crescents. Next he’ll use the same dough to make the pain au chocolat, and almondines and the morning buns, our version of cinnamon rolls, only way better.